


In the deafness of my world the silence broke

by Elvara



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Ghosts, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Introspection, M/M, Resurrection, Spoilers for RQG174 onwards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:02:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27674452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elvara/pseuds/Elvara
Summary: Afterwards, Wilde lingers. This isn’t really what he was expecting.
Relationships: Zolf Smith & Oscar Wilde, Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde
Comments: 18
Kudos: 46





	In the deafness of my world the silence broke

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 'Lazarus' by Porcupine Tree
> 
> Spoilers for everything from 174 onwards.

_ Zolf shouts a warning and the airship drops suddenly with a sickening lurch.  _

_ It tilts wildly to the side, catching him off balance and sending him stumbling into the guard rail.  _

_ The airship smashes into the treetops, a shudder cascading across the entire hull. He loses his grip, tipping over the side, grasping in vain for the safety line. _

_ The rope snaps. He thinks he hears someone yelling. _

_ And then… Quiet. _

Wilde stares upwards at the ragged scar through the tree canopy left behind by the landing, all torn branches and bare limbs reaching for the clouds. The ship is embedded in a large snow bank, listing to the side exposing a torn open hull.  _ ‘Gods _ . _ That was lucky.’ _

Above him, he can hear the voices of his companions calling to each other on deck, one of them in a distinct West Country accent that settles his nerves a bit.

It’s not cold, he thinks with some surprise, given the snow lying in thick drifts around them. Hamid really did an excellent job on this coat. He must remember to thank him later. A flurry of movement overhead catches his eye and he spies the halfling in question start and shout out at something in the air. His heart drops at the sight of Carter and Barnes in a tree. Gods.

He starts towards them to help when Zolf jumps down from the deck and glances around, heading toward him. He opens his mouth to greet him when the dwarf goes as white as his hair, staring at something beyond Wilde’s shoulder. Stomach clenching, Wilde turns to see what Zolf has spotted, bracing himself for the sight of another injured friend.

Oh.

Well. 

That’s that then.

He can't look, returning his gaze back to Zolf quickly enough to see the cleric with an expression of naked loss before a familiar mask slams into place as he spins on his heel, looking for someone else to help.

Wilde drifts after him, uncertain of what he should do and not wanting to be alone. 

Drifts? He takes a moment to examine himself. He appears solid enough - not transparent like some ghastly spectre from a bad novel but now he notices that he’s not leaving prints in the snow. There's a moment of dizzying vertigo but he shoves it aside and carefully places his feet into the tracks left by Zolf. 

Wilde continues in this manner for a while, observing as Zolf triages the wounded, healing broken bones and directing the able bodied to keep them busy. Wilde sees the traces of the Navy man he once was, cool-headed and compartmentalised in a crisis. It was a trait he’d always admired, one of many reasons he’d sought him out after Damascus, when he was all out of people to trust.

His chest feels tight as they uncover Sassraa and Meerk; a phantom  _ (hah) _ pain in his heart. He admires the stoic, methodical care the rest of the kobolds bring to laying the bodies out. He should have spent more time learning about them. He’s failed them, leaving behind these tiny forms under oilcloth. 

He turns away as Zolf and Cel appear on deck, shoulders bent with the weight of their burden between them. He catches a glimpse of tears on Cel’s face. Zolf is speaking in reassurances, though there’s a brittle tone to his voice as he asks Cel to bring him clean rags so that they can clean up. He moves away, towards the treeline where he last saw Azu and Hamid disappear. He finds himself staring at his hands again, clenching them and moving the fingers in old familiar gestures as if that would do anything. He feels very calm and wonders if that’s to be expected, now. Without the rush of blood under his skin, or adrenaline in his veins, will he ever feel anything deeply again?

For the first time, he wonders where Carter and the others are, if they shared his fate. He’s seen no sign of them around the wreckage, and he’s certain Carter at least would have had some choice words to say. Were they as disoriented as he was? Have they found a way to move on?

\--

It turns out that being dead isn’t really what Wilde was expecting. He’s never been one to imagine himself sitting around on clouds with choirs of angels serenading him, but this? For whatever passing thought he’d ever given the afterlife, he’d always imagined he’d be, well, somewhere else. A study filled with books, a warm fire and a well-stocked liquor cabinet, perhaps. The chance to see lost loved ones again; Isola, Sasha, maybe even Grizzop.

Instead he’s lingering, able to observe his compatriots but not interact. Perhaps this is what he deserves after life as a spy. You reap what you sow, after all, so an eternity of observation seems fitting. 

Except, it seems that even that has its limits. As he’d wandered looking for Carter and the kobolds, he discovered something disconcerting. His sphere of perception is shrinking. He thought it linked to how far he got away from his… from himself, but it seems to be linked to Zolf. As he’d returned to the ship, he'd heard Azu speaking close at hand, before she materialised at his side, like the phantom he is before becoming solid the closer he came to the dwarf. He tests the theory. If he gets much further than 5 metres from Zolf, the world becomes eerie and empty and he has to concentrate to focus.

Why Zolf? If it were related to magic, Hamid is probably be more powerful and it’s not working near him. Divinity, then? Except, Azu has the greater faith and he didn’t even know she was by his side. Either it’s familiarity or because Zolf found him first. Maybe he's imprinted on him like some baby bird. 

Perhaps that’s the reason he can’t see the others. Maybe Carter is shadowing Barnes, Sassraa and Meerk following Skraak. He hopes not. It feels unbearably  _ lonely _ .

Perhaps he should be more worried about this than he is. Still, there are certainly worse people to be stuck with. Imagine having only Hamid's morning routine with all the coiffing it must take for entertainment. At least he can read Cambells over Zolf’s shoulder. Besides, Zolf’s presence at his side has been a welcome comfort over the past two years. All that’s changed is he can’t hear Wilde poking fun at him.

It means that Wilde can really take the opportunity to observe him in a way he’d never let himself before. As Zolf meditates, Wilde sits cross legged in front of him, studying every line and flicker of movement on his face. There’s a moment when he opens his eyes that Wilde feels his heart lurch, could swear that Zolf is looking right at him, but no. Zolf clearly thinks he’s alone. There’s a slump to his shoulders, a touch of despair in his eyes that he won’t let show when there’s work to be done. Wilde resists the urge to reach for him. It won’t matter.

Wilde’s been avoiding his body, but Zolf clearly has a plan and he doesn’t want to be by himself so he sits with his back to it, so he can only see the hand. His breath catches as Zolf reaches to touch it as he casts, and he swallows his disappointment when he feels nothing. He’d thought, maybe - but no, that’s wishful thinking.

Gods, when was the last time he even touched someone? He can’t recall. The memory of Zolf grabbing his collar to jest at him, the faintest graze of a fingertip on his neck. For a fleeting moment, he’d thought the cleric would kiss him. He’s not sure now if that would have made this situation better or worse.

He’s relieved when Zolf chooses to stay with the ship and not accompany what lies below the oilcloth up to the city. He watches with interest as Zolf ties himself to the wheel, nimble fingers creating complex knots. There’d been a time when this might have been a fantasy of his, but now he’s curiously detached. Maybe if this works he’ll have the chance to tease him about it later. He wonders if he’ll even remember.

Zolf’s speaking to Earhart, voice breaks over his words and Wilde moves closer, placing a hand on the wheel next to Zolf’s shoulder. Not close enough to touch, not close enough to break the illusion; but he can imagine he’s bringing him comfort. He wishes he could do more but Gods know he’s had a lot of practice not touching Zolf. This has to be enough.

\--

When Sohra asks for volunteers for guides, Zolf's response is immediate. What has he done to deserve such loyalty? "Oldest friend" or not, Zolf's companionship is far more than he deserves. He’s dragged them into all this, after all. Sassraa, Meerk, Carter. Without him, they’d never have been here, they might even still be alive.

He trails after them into the ritual space. It's peaceful. His attention is caught by the figures laid out in the centre of the room with reverence. He moves closer, stares down at himself. It's the first time he's really looked. He could be asleep, were it not for the paleness of his skin. Zolf settles himself behind his head and waits for instruction. Wilde wonders what he’s thinking, his gaze so fixed on Wilde’s own face. Since he heard of the possibility of resurrection, Zolf has been calm, relaxed. Focussed.

A sudden terror grips his heart. It's too soon, he's not ready. He can't sit there and watch this; watch with the potential that this might  _ fail _ ; can't stay and see Zolf's face if he doesn't wake up. 

He turns and walks away, ignoring the lightest tug behind him of whatever binds him to Zolf. He has no sense of where he's going, except away. The sights of his friends fade first, and then the sounds of the voices of the city folk until he’s left with the creaking of ropes and wood and the sounds of the breeze. 

His feet lead him to the very edge of the city. There's a little wooden railing and as he peers over, the sight is unbelievable. A broad expanse of fur sloping below, two vast ears and then beyond, endless mountains and snow-covered forests. The fur bends in the wind he can’t feel like grass and for a moment all he can do is look. Then the great beast moves forward and the horizon lurches like a crashing airship and he sinks to his knees with closed eyes, trembling.

Here it is, the shock he’s been half expecting since he first saw Zolf’s pale horrified face. He scrubs his hands across his face, gasping in great heaving sobs.

He's just not ready. There's so  _ much _ left for him to do. He can't leave them alone. Who else will watch over them, protect them? He already failed Sasha and Grizzop - even Bertie, in a way - and he just can't lose anyone else. He doesn't want to be left by himself in this strange empty plane, doesn't want to shadow this infinitely sadder version of Zolf without being able to offer comfort. 

He opens his eyes again, gazing at the sky in despair. He just needs a little more  _ time. _

He doesn’t know how long he’s standing there. There’s that tugging of his awareness, of Zolf drawing closer. It’s still so quiet and he holds his breath, needlessly, not turning his gaze from the mountains even as he feels Zolf's presence settle in beside him.

His friend says nothing and Wilde squeezes his eyes shut once more as he gathers his courage and reaches blindly for Zolf's hand.

A warm palm and calloused fingers encase his own and he could weep from relief at the warmth that spreads up his arm from that simple touch.

"Oscar." The fingers tighten around his.

"Zolf."

"You comin' then?"

_ "Yes." _


End file.
